The Complete Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley (ed. Hutchinson, 1914)/Epipsychidion
EPIPSYCHIDION
VERSES ADDRESSED TO THE NOBLE AND UNFORTUNATE LADY, EMILIA V———,
NOW IMPRISONED IN THE CONVENT OF ———
L'anima amante si slancia fuori del creato, e si crea nell' infinito un Mondo tutto per essa, diverso assai da questo oscuro e pauroso baratro.
Her own words.
[Epipsychidion was composed at Pisa, Jan., Feb., 1821, and published without the author's name, in the following summer, by C. & J. Ollier, London. The poem was included by Mrs. Shelley in the Poetical Works, 1839, both edd. Amongst the Shelley MSS. in the Bodleian is a first draft of Epipsychidion, 'consisting of three versions, more or less complete, of the Preface [Advertisement], a version in ink and pencil, much cancelled, of the last eighty lines of the poem, and some additional lines which did not appear in print' (Examination of the Shelley MSS. in the Bodleian Library, by G. D. Locock. Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1903, p. 3). This draft, the writing of which is 'extraordinarily confused and illegible,' has been carefully deciphered and printed by Mr. Locock in the volume named above. Our text follows that of the editio princeps, 1821.]
ADVERTISEMENT
The Writer of the following lines died at Florence, as he was preparing for a voyage to one of the wildest of the Sporades, which he had bought, and where he had fitted up the ruins of an old building, and where it was his hope to have realised a scheme of life, suited perhaps to that happier and better world of which he is now an inhabitant, but hardly practicable in this. His life was singular; less on account of the romantic vicissitudes which diversified it, than the ideal tinge which it received from his own character and feelings. The present Poem, like the Vita Nuova of Dante, is sufficiently intelligible to a certain class of readers without a matter-of-fact history of the circumstances to which it relates; and to a certain other class it must ever remain incomprehensible, from a defect of a common organ of perception for the ideas of which it treats. Not but that gran vergogna sarebbe a colui, che rimasse cosa sotto veste di figura, o di colore rettorico: e domandato non sapesse denudare le sue parole da cotal veste, in guisa che avessero verace intendimetnto.
The present poem appears to have been intended by the Writer as the dedication to some longer one. The stanza on the opposite page[1] is almost a literal translation from Dante's famous Canzone
Voi, chi intendendo, il terzo ciel movete, etc.
The presumptuous application of the concluding lines to his own composition will raise a smile at the expense of my unfortunate friend: be it a smile not of contempt, but pity. S.
My Song, I fear that thou wilt find but fewWho fitly shall conceive thy reasoning,Of such hard matter dost thou entertain; Whence, if by misadventure, chance should bring Thee to base company (as chance may do), 5Quite unaware of what thou dost contain, I prithee, comfort thy sweet self again, My last delight! tell them that they are dull, And bid them own that thou art beautiful.
EPIPSYCHIDION
Sweet Spirit! Sister of that orphan one,Whose empire is the name thou weepest on, In my heart's temple I suspend to thee These votive wreaths of withered memory.
Poor captive bird! who, from thy narrow cage, 5Pourest such music, that it might assuageThe rugged hearts of those who prisoned thee,Were they not deaf to all sweet melody;This song shall be thy rose: its petals paleAre dead, indeed, my adored Nightingale! 10But soft and fragrant is the faded blossom,And it has no thorn left to wound thy bosom.
High, spirit-wingèd Heart! who dost for everBeat thine unfeeling bars with vain endeavour,Till those bright plumes of thought, in which arrayed 15It over-soared this low and worldly shade,Lie shattered; and thy panting, wounded breastStains with dear blood its unmaternal nest!I weep vain tears: blood would less bitter be,Yet poured forth gladlier, could it profit thee. 20
Seraph of Heaven! too gentle to be human,Veiling beneath that radiant form of WomanAll that is insupportable in theeOf light, and love, and immortality!Sweet Benediction in the eternal Curse! 25Veiled Glory of this lampless Universe!Thou Moon beyond the clouds! Thou living FormAmong the Dead! Thou Star above the Storm!Thou Wonder, and thou Beauty, and thou Terror!Thou Harmony of Nature's art! Thou Mirror 30In whom, as in the splendour of the Sun,All shapes look glorious which thou gazest on!Ay, even the dim words which obscure thee nowFlash, lightning-like, with unaccustomed glow;I pray thee that thou blot from this sad song 35All of its much mortality and wrong,With those clear drops, which start like sacred dewFrom the twin lights thy sweet soul darkens through,Weeping, till sorrow becomes ecstasy:Then smile on it, so that it may not die. 40
I never thought before my death to seeYouth's vision thus made perfect. Emily,I love thee; though the world by no thin nameWill hide that love from its unvalued shame.Would we two had been twins of the same mother! 45Or, that the name my heart lent to anotherCould be a sister's bond for her and thee,Blending two beams of one eternity!Yet were one lawful and the other true,These names, though dear, could paint not, as is due. 50How beyond refuge I am thine. Ah me!I am not thine: I am a part of thee.
Sweet Lamp! my moth-like Muse has burned its wingsOr, like a dying swan who soars and sings,Young Love should teach Time, in his own gray style, 55All that thou art. Art thou not void of guile,A lovely soul formed to be blessed and bless?A well of sealed and secret happiness,Whose waters like blithe light and music are,Vanquishing dissonance and gloom? A Star 60Which moves not in the moving heavens, alone?A Smile amid dark frowns? a gentle toneAmid rude voices? a beloved light?A Solitude, a Refuge, a Delight?A Lute, which those whom Love has taught to play 65Make music on, to soothe the roughest dayAnd lull fond Grief asleep? a buried treasure?A cradle of young thoughts of wingless pleasure?A violet-shrouded grave of Woe?—I measureThe world of fancies, seeking one like thee, 70And find—alas! mine own infirmity.
She met me, Stranger, upon life's rough way,And lured me towards sweet Death; as Night by Day,Winter by Spring, or Sorrow by swift Hope,Led into light, life, peace. An antelope, 75In the suspended impulse of its lightness,Were less aethereally light: the brightnessOf her divinest presence trembles throughHer limbs, as underneath a cloud of dewEmbodied in the windless heaven of June 80Amid the splendour-wingèd stars, the MoonBurns, inextinguishably beautiful:And from her lips, as from a hyacinth fullOf honey-dew, a liquid murmur drops,Killing the sense with passion; sweet as stops 85Of planetary music heard in trance.In her mild lights the starry spirits dance,The sunbeams of those wells which ever leapUnder the lightnings of the soul—too deepFor the brief fathom-line of thought or sense. 90The glory of her being, issuing thence,Stains the dead, blank, cold air with a warm shadeOf unentangled intermixture, madeBy Love, of light and motion: one intenseDiffusion, one serene Omnipresence, 95Whose flowing outlines mingle in their flowing,Around her cheeks and utmost fingers glowingWith the unintermitted blood, which thereQuivers, (as in a fleece of snow-like airThe crimson pulse of living morning[2] quiver,) 100Continuously prolonged, and ending never, Till they are lost, and in that Beauty furledWhich penetrates and clasps and tills the world;Scarce visible from extreme loveliness.Warm fragrance seems to fall from her light dress 105And her loose hair; and where some heavy tressThe air of her own speed has disentwined,The sweetness seems to satiate the faint wind;And in the soul a wild odour is felt,Beyond the sense, like fiery dews that melt 110Into the bosom of a frozen bud.—See where she stands! a mortal shape induedWith love and life and light and deity,And motion which may change but cannot die;An image of some bright Eternity; 115A shadow of some golden dream; a SplendourLeaving the third sphere pilotless; a tenderReflection of[3] the eternal Moon of LoveUnder whose motions life's dull billows move;A Metaphor of Spring and Youth and Morning; 120A Vision like incarnate April, warning,With smiles and tears, Frost the AnatomyInto his summer grave.Ah, woe is me!What have I dared? where am I lifted? howShall I descend, and perish not? I know 125That Love makes all things equal: I have heardBy mine own heart this joyous truth averred:The spirit of the worm beneath the sodIn love and worship, blends itself with God.
Spouse! Sister! Angel! Pilot of the Fate 130Whose course has been so starless! O too lateBeloved! O too soon adored, by me!For in the fields of ImmortalityMy spirit should at first have worshipped thine,A divine presence in a place divine; 135Or should have moved beside it on this earth,A shadow of that substance, from its birth;But not as now:—I love thee; yes, I feelThat on the fountain of my heart a sealIs set, to keep its waters pure and bright 140For thee, since in those tears thou hast delight.We—are we not formed, as notes of music are,For one another, though dissimilar;Such difference without discord, as can makeThose sweetest sounds, in which all spirits shake 145As trembling leaves in a continuous air?
Thy wisdom speaks in me, and bids me dareBeacon the rocks on which high hearts are wrecked.I never was attached to that great sect,Whose doctrine is, that each one should select 150 Out of the crowd a mistress or a friend,And all the rest, though fair and wise, commendTo cold oblivion, though it is in the codeOf modern morals, and the beaten roadWhich those poor slaves with weary footsteps tread, 155Who travel to their home among the deadBy the broad highway of the world, and soWith one chained friend, perhaps a jealous foe,The dreariest and the longest journey go.
True Love in this differs from gold and clay, 160That to divide is not to take away.Love is like understanding, that grows bright,Gazing on many truths; 'tis like thy light,Imagination! which from earth and sky,And from the depths of human fantasy, 165As from a thousand prisms and mirrors, fillsThe Universe with glorious beams, and killsError, the worm, with many a sun-like arrowOf its reverberated lightning. NarrowThe heart that loves, the brain that contemplates, 170The life that wears, the spirit that createsOne object, and one form, and builds therebyA sepulchre for its eternity.
Mind from its object differs most in this:Evil from good; misery from happiness; 175The baser from the nobler; the impureAnd frail, from what is clear and must endure.If you divide suffering and dross, you mayDiminish till it is consumed away;If you divide pleasure and love and thought, 180Each part exceeds the whole; and we know notHow much, while any yet remains unshared,Of pleasure may be gained, of sorrow spared:This truth is that deep well, whence sages drawThe unenvied light of hope; the eternal law 185By which those live, to whom this world of lifeIs as a garden ravaged, and whose strifeTills for the promise of a later birthThe wilderness of this Elysian earth.
There was a Being whom my spirit oft 190Met on its visioned wanderings, far aloft,In the clear golden prime of my youth's dawn,Upon the fairy isles of sunny lawn,Amid the enchanted mountains, and the cavesOf divine sleep, and on the air-like waves 195Of wonder-level dream, whose tremulous floorPaved her light steps;— on an imagined shore,Under the gray beak of some promontoryShe met me, robed in such exceeding glory, That I beheld her not. In solitudes 200Her voice came to me through the whispering woods,And from the fountains, and the odours deepOf flowers, which, like lips murmuring in their sleepOf the sweet kisses which had lulled them there,Breathed but of her to the enamoured air; 205And from the breezes whether low or loud,And from the rain of every passing cloud,And from the singing of the summer-birds,And from all sounds, all silence. In the wordsOf antique verse and high romance,—in form, 210Sound, colour—in whatever checks that StormWhich with the shattered present chokes the past;And in that best philosophy, whose tasteMakes this cold common hell, our life, a doomAs glorious as a fiery martyrdom; 215Her Spirit was the harmony of truth.—
Then, from the caverns of my dreamy youth I sprang, as one sandalled with plumes of fire, And towards the lodestar of my one desire, I flitted, like a dizzy moth, whose flight 220Is as a dead leaf's in the owlet light, When it would seek in Hesper's setting sphere A radiant death, a fiery sepulchre, As if it were a lamp of earthly flame.—But She, whom prayers or tears then could not tame, 225Passed, like a God throned on a winged planet, Whose burning plumes to tenfold swiftness fan it, Into the dreary cone of our life's shade; And as a man with mighty loss dismayed, I would have followed, though the grave between 230Yawned like a gulf whose spectres are unseen: When a voice said:—'O thou of hearts the weakest, The phantom is beside thee whom thou seekest.' Then I—'Where?'—the world's echo answered 'where?' And in that silence, and in my despair, 235I questioned every tongueless wind that flew Over my tower of mourning, if it knew Whither 'twas fled, this soul out of my soul; And murmured names and spells which have control Over the sightless tyrants of our fate; 240But neither prayer nor verse could dissipate The night which closed on her; nor uncreate That world within this Chaos, mine and me, Of which she was the veiled Divinity, The world I say of thoughts that worshipped her: 245And therefore I went forth, with hope and fear And every gentle passion sick to death, Feeding my course with expectation's breath, Into the wintry forest of our life; And struggling through its error with vain strife, 250 And stumbling in my weakness and my haste,And half bewildered by new forms, I passed, Seeking among those untaught forestersIf I could find one form resembling hers,In which she might have masked herself from me. 255There,—One, whose voice was venomed melodySate by a well, under blue nightshade bowers:The breath of her false mouth was like faint flowers,Her touch was as electric poison,—flameOut of her looks into my vitals came, 260And from her living cheeks and bosom flewA killing air, which pierced like honey-dewInto the core of my green heart, and layUpon its leaves; until, as hair grown grayO'er a young brow, they hid its unblown prime 265With ruins of unseasonable time.
In many mortal forms I rashly soughtThe shadow of that idol of my thought.And some were fair—but beauty dies away:Others were wise—but honeyed words betray: 270And One was true—oh! why not true to me?Then, as a hunted deer that could not flee,I turned upon my thoughts, and stood at bay,Wounded and weak and panting; the cold dayTrembled, for pity of my strife and pain. 275When, like a noonday dawn, there shone againDeliverance. One stood on my path who seemedAs like the glorious shape which I had d reamedAs is the Moon, whose changes ever runInto themselves, to the eternal Sun; 280The cold chaste Moon, the Queen of Heaven's bright isles,Who makes all beautiful on which she smiles,That wandering shrine of soft yet icy flameWhich ever is transformed, yet still the same,And warms not but illumines. Young and fair 285As the descended Spirit of that sphere,She hid me, as the Moon may hide the nightFrom its own darkness, until all was brightBetween the Heaven and Earth of my calm mind,And, as a cloud charioted by the wind, 290She led me to a cave in that wild place,And sate beside me, with her downward faceIllumining my slumbers, like the MoonWaxing and waning o'er Endymion.And I was laid asleep, spirit and limb, 295And all my being became bright or dimAs the Moon's image in a summer sea,According as she smiled or frowned on me;And there I lay, within a chaste cold bed:Alas, I then was nor alive nor dead:— 300 For at her silver voice came Death and Life,Unmindful each of their accustomed strife,Masked like twin babes, a sister and a brother,The wandering hopes of one abandoned mother,And through the cavern without wings they flew, 305And cried 'Away, he is not of our crew.'I wept, and though it be a dream, I weep.
What storms then shook the ocean of my sleep,Blotting that Moon, whose pale and waning lipsThen shrank as in the sickness of eclipse;— 310And how my soul was as a lampless sea,And who was then its Tempest; and when She,The Planet of that hour, was quenched, what frostCrept o'er those waters, till from coast to coastThe moving billows of my being fell 315Into a death of ice, immovable;—And then—what earthquakes made it gape and split,The white Moon smiling all the while on it,These words conceal:—If not, each word would beThe key of staunchless tears. Weep not for me! 320
At length, into the obscure Forest cameThe Vision I had sought through grief and shame.Athwart that wintry wilderness of thornsFlashed from her motion splendour like the Morn's,And from her presence life was radiated 325Through the gray earth and branches bare and dead;So that her way was paved, and roofed aboveWith flowers as soft as thoughts of budding love;And music from her respiration spreadLike light,—all other sounds were penetrated 330By the small, still, sweet spirit of that sound,So that the savage winds hung mute around;And odours warm and fresh fell from her hairDissolving the dull cold in the frore air:Soft as an Incarnation of the Sun, 335When light is changed to love, this glorious OneFloated into the cavern where I lay,And called my Spirit, and the dreaming clayWas lifted by the thing that dreamed belowAs smoke by fire, and in her beauty's glow 340I stood, and felt the dawn of my long nightWas penetrating me with living light:I knew it was the Vision veiled from meSo many years—that it was Emily.
Twin Spheres of light who rule this passive Earth, 345This world of loves, this me; and into birthAwaken all its fruits and flowers, and dartMagnetic might into its central heart; And lift its billows and its mists, and guideBy everlasting laws, each wind and tide 350To its fit cloud, and its appointed cave;And lull its storms, each in the craggy graveWhich was its cradle, luring to faint bowersThe armies of the rainbow-wingèd showers;And, as those married lights, which from the towers 355Of Heaven look forth and fold the wandering globeIn liquid sleep and splendour, as a robe;And all their many-mingled influence blend,If equal, yet unlike, to one sweet end;—So ye, bright regents, with alternate sway 360Govern my sphere of being, night and day!Thou, not disdaining even a borrowed might;Thou, not eclipsing a remoter light;And, through the shadow of the seasons three,From Spring to Autumn's sere maturity, 365Light it into the Winter of the tomb,Where it may ripen to a brighter bloom.Thou too, O Comet beautiful and fierce,Who drew the heart of this frail UniverseTowards thine own; till, wrecked in that convulsion, 370Alternating attraction and repulsion,Thine went astray and that was rent in twain;Oh, float into our azure heaven again!Be there Love's folding-star at thy return;The living Sun will feed thee from its urn 375Of golden fire; the Moon will veil her hornIn thy last smiles; adoring Even and MornWill worship thee with incense of calm breathAnd lights and shadows; as the star of DeathAnd Birth is worshipped by those sisters wild 380Called Hope and Fear—upon the heart are piledTheir offerings,—of this sacrifice divineA World shall be the altar.
Lady mine,Scorn not these flowers of thought, the fading birthWhich from its heart of hearts that plant puts forth 385Whose fruit, made perfect by thy sunny eyes,Will be as of the trees of Paradise.
The day is come, and thou wilt fly with me.To whatsoe'er of dull mortalityIs mine, remain a vestal sister still; 390To the intense, the deep, the imperishable,Not mine but me, henceforth be thou unitedEven as a bride, delighting and delighted.The hour is come:—the destined Star has risenWhich shall descend upon a vacant prison. 395The walls are high, the gates are strong, thick setThe sentinels—but true Love never yet Was thus constrained: it overleaps all fence:Like lightning, with invisible violencePiercing its continents; like Heaven's free breath, 400Which he who grasps can hold not; liker Death,Who rides upon a thought, and makes his wayThrough temple, tower, and palace, and the arrayOf arms: more strength has Love than he or they;For it[4] can burst his charnel, and make free 405The limbs in chains, the heart in agony,The soul in dust and chaos.Emily,A ship is floating in the harbour now,A wind is hovering o'er the mountain's brow;There is a path on the sea's azure floor, 410No keel has ever ploughed that path before;The halcyons brood around the foamless isles;The treacherous Ocean has forsworn its wiles;The merry mariners are bold and free:Say, my heart's sister, wilt thou sail with me? 415Our bark is as an albatross, whose nestIs a far Eden of the purple East;And we between her wings will sit, while Night,And Day, and Storm, and Calm, pursue their flight,Our ministers, along the boundless Sea, 420Treading each other's heels, unheededly.It is an isle under Ionian skies,Beautiful as a wreck of Paradise,And, for the harbours are not safe and good,This land would have remained a solitude 425But for some pastoral people native there,Who from the Elysian, clear, and golden airDraw the last spirit of the age of gold,Simple and spirited; innocent and bold.The blue Aegean girds this chosen home, 430With ever-changing sound and light and foam,Kissing the sifted sands, and caverns hoar;And all the winds wandering along the shoreUndulate with the undulating tide:There are thick woods where sylvan forms abide; 435And many a fountain, rivulet, and pond,As clear as elemental diamond,Or serene morning air; and far beyond,The mossy tracks made by the goats and deer(Which the rough shepherd treads but once a year) 440Pierce into glades, caverns, and bowers, and hallsBuilt round with ivy, which the waterfallsIllumining, with sound that never failsAccompany the noonday nightingales;And all the place is peopled with sweet airs; 445The light clear element which the isle wears Is heavy with the scent of lemon-flowers,Which floats like mist laden with unseen showers.And falls upon the eyelids like faint sleep;And from the moss violets and jonquils peep, 450And dart their arrowy odour through the brainTill you might faint with that delicious pain.And every motion, odour, beam and tone,With that deep music is in unison:Which is a soul within the soul—they seem 455Like echoes of an antenatal dream.—It is an isle 'twixt Heaven, Air, Earth, and Sea,Cradled, and hung in clear tranquillity;Bright as that wandering Eden Lucifer,Washed by the soft blue Oceans of young air. 460It is a favoured place. Famine or Blight,Pestilence, War and Earthquake, never lightUpon its mountain-peaks; blind vultures, theySail onward far upon their fatal way:The wingèd storms, chanting their thunder-psalm 465To other lands, leave azure chasms of calmOver this isle, or weep themselves in dew,From which its fields and woods ever renewTheir green and golden immortality.And from the sea there rise, and from the sky 470There fall, clear exhalations, soft and bright.Veil after veil, each hiding some delight,Which Sun or Moon or zephyr draw aside,Till the isle's beauty, like a naked brideGlowing at once with love and loveliness, 475Blushes and trembles at its own excess:Yet, like a buried lamp, a Soul no lessBurns in the heart of this delicious isle,An atom of th' Eternal, whose own smileUnfolds itself, and may be felt, not seen 480O'er the gray rocks, blue waves, and forests green,Filling their bare and void interstices.—But the chief marvel of the wildernessIs a lone dwelling, built by whom or howNone of the rustic island-people know: 485'Tis not a tower of strength, though with its heightIt overtops the woods; but, for delight,Some wise and tender Ocean-King, ere crimeHad been invented, in the world's young prime,Reared it, a wonder of that simple time, 490An envy of the isles, a pleasure-houseMade sacred to his sister and his spouse.It scarce seems now a wreck of human art,But, as it were Titanic; in the heartOf Earth having assumed its form, then grown 495Out of the mountains, from the living stone,Lifting itself in caverns light and high:For all the antique and learnèd imagery Has been erased, and in the place of itThe ivy and the wild-vine interknit 500The volumes of their many-twining[5] stems;Parasite flowers illume with dewy gemsThe lampless halls, and when they fade, the skyPeeps through their winter-woof[6] of traceryWith moonlight patches, or star atoms keen, 505Or fragments of the day's intense serene;—Working mosaic on their Parian floors.And, day and night, aloof, from the high towersAnd terraces, the Earth and Ocean seemTo sleep in one another's arms, and dream 510Of waves, flowers, clouds, woods, rocks, and all that weRead in their smiles, and call reality.
This isle and house are mine, and I have vowedThee to be lady of the solitude.—And I have fitted up some chambers there 515Looking towards the golden Eastern air,And level with the living winds, which flowLike waves above the living waves below.—I have sent books and music there, and allThose instruments with which high Spirits call 520The future from its cradle, and the pastOut of its grave, and make the present lastIn thoughts and joys which sleep, but cannot die,Folded within their own eternity.Our simple life wants little, and true taste 525Hires not the pale drudge Luxury, to wasteThe scene it would adorn, and therefore still,Nature with all her children haunts the hill.The ring-dove, in the embowering ivy, yetKeeps up her love-lament, and the owls flit 530Round the evening tower, and the young stars glanceBetween the quick bats in their twilight dance;The spotted deer bask in the fresh moonlightBefore our gate, and the slow, silent nightIs measured by the pants of their calm sleep. 535Be this our home in life, and when years heapTheir withered hours, like leaves, on our decay,Let us become the overhanging day,The living soul of this Elysian isle,Conscious, inseparable, one. Meanwhile 540We two will rise, and sit, and walk together,Under the roof of blue Ionian weather,And wander in the meadows, or ascendThe mossy mountains, where the blue heavens bendWith lightest winds, to touch their paramour; 545Or linger, where the pebble-paven shore, Under the quick, faint kisses of the seaTrembles and sparkles as with ecstasy,—Possessing and possessed by all that isWithin that calm circumference of bliss, 550And by each other, till to love and liveBe one:—or, at the noontide hour, arriveWhere some old cavern hoar seems yet to keepThe moonlight of the expired night asleep,Through which the awakened day can never peep; 555A veil for our seclusion, close as night's,Where secure sleep may kill thine innocent lights:Sleep, the fresh dew of languid love, the rainWhose drops quench kisses till they burn again.And we will talk, until thought's melody 560Become too sweet for utterance, and it dieIn words, to live again in looks, which dartWith thrilling tone into the voiceless heart,Harmonizing silence without a sound.Our breath shall intermix, our bosoms bound, 565And our veins beat together; and our lipsWith other eloquence than words, eclipseThe soul that burns between them, and the wellsWhich boil under our being's inmost cells,The fountains of our deepest life, shall be 570Confused in Passion's golden purity,As mountain-springs under the morning sun.We shall become the same, we shall be oneSpirit within two frames, oh! wherefore two?One passion in twin-hearts, which grows and grew, 575Till like two meteors of expanding flame,Those spheres instinct with it become the same,Touch, mingle, are transfigured; ever stillBurning, yet ever inconsumable:In one another's substance finding food, 580Like flames too pure and light and unimbuedTo nourish their bright lives with baser prey,Which point to Heaven and cannot pass away:One hope within two wills, one will beneathTwo overshadowing minds, one life, one death, 585One Heaven, one Hell, one immortality,And one annihilation. Woe is me!The winged words on which my soul would pierceInto the height of Love's rare Universe,Are chains of lead around its flight of fire— 590I pant, I sink, I tremble, I expire!
Weak Verses, go, kneel at your Sovereign's feet,And say:—'We are the masters of thy slave;What wouldest thou with us and ours and thine?'Then call your sisters from Oblivion's cave, 595All singing loud: 'Love's very pain is sweet, But its reward is in the world divine Which, if not here, it builds beyond the grave' So shall ye live when I am there. Then haste Over the hearts of men, until ye meet 600Marina, Vanna, Primus, and the rest, And bid them love each other and be blessed: And leave the troop which errs, and which reproves, And come and be my guest,—for I am Love's.
Weak Verses, go, kneel at your Sovereign's feet,And say:—'We are the masters of thy slave;What wouldest thou with us and ours and thine?'Then call your sisters from Oblivion's cave, 595All singing loud: 'Love's very pain is sweet, But its reward is in the world divine Which, if not here, it builds beyond the grave' So shall ye live when I am there. Then haste Over the hearts of men, until ye meet 600Marina, Vanna, Primus, and the rest, And bid them love each other and be blessed: And leave the troop which errs, and which reproves, And come and be my guest,—for I am Love's.
FRAGMENTS CONNECTED WITH EPIPSYCHIDION
[Of the fragments of verse that follow, lines 1-37, 62-92 were printed by Mrs. Shelley in P. W., 1839, 2nd edition; lines 1-174 were printed or reprinted by Dr. Garnett in Relics of Shelley, 1862; and lines 175-186 were printed by Mr. C. D. Locock from the first draft of Epipsychidion amongst the Shelley MSS. in the Bodleian Library. See Examination, &c, 1903, pp. 12, 13. The three early drafts of the Preface (Advertisement) were printed by Mr. Locock in the same volume, pp. 4, 5.]
THREE EARLY DRAFTS OF THE PREFACE (ADVERTISEMENT)
PREFACE I
The following Poem was found amongst other papers in the Portfolio of a young Englishman with whom the Editor had contracted an intimacy at Florence, brief indeed, but sufficiently long to render the Catastrophe by which it terminated one of the most painful events of his life.—
The literary merit of the Poem in question may not be considerable; but worse verses are printed every day, &
He was an accomplished & amiable person but his error was, θνητος ὠν μη θνητα φρονειν,—his fate is an additional proof that 'The tree of Knowledge is not that of Life.'—He had framed to himself certain opinions, founded no doubt upon the truth of things, but built up to a Babel height; they fell by their own weight, & the thoughts that were his architects, became unintelligible one to the other, as men upon whom confusion of tongues has fallen.
[These] verses seem to have been written as a sort of dedication of some work to have been presented to the person whom they address: but his papers afford no trace of such a work—The circumstances to which [they] the poem allude, may easily be understood by those to whom [the] spirit of the poem itself is [un]intelligible: a detail of facts, sufficiently romantic in [themselves but] their combinations
The melancholy [task] charge of consigning the body of my poor friend to the grave, was committed to me by his desolated family. I caused him to be buried in a spot selected by himself, & on the h
PREFACE II
[Epips] T. E. V. Epipsych
Lines addressed to
the Noble Lady
[Emilia] [E. V.]
Emilia
[The following Poem was found in the PF. of a young Englishman, who died on his passage from Leghorn to the Levant. He had bought one of the Sporades] He was accompanied by a lady [who might have been] supposed to be his wife, & an effeminate looking youth, to whom he shewed an [attachment] so [singular] excessive an attachment as to give rise to the suspicion, that she was a woman—At his death this suspicion was confirmed; object speedily found a refuge both from the taunts of the brute multitude, and from the of her grief in the same grave that contained her lover.—He had bought one of the Sporades, & fitted up a Saracenic castle which accident had preserved in some repair with simple elegance, & it was his intention to dedicate the remainder of his life to undisturbed intercourse with his companions
These verses apparently were intended as a dedication of a longer poem or series of poems
PREFACE III
The writer of these lines died at Florence in [January 1820] while he was preparing * * for one wildest of the of the Sporades, where he bought & fitted up the ruins of some old building—His life was singular, less on account of the romantic vicissitudes which diversified it, than the ideal tinge which they received from his own character & feelings—
The verses were apparently intended by the writer to accompany some longer poem or collection of poems, of which there * [are no remnants in his] * * * remains [in his] portfolio.—
The editor is induced to
The present poem, like the vita Nova of Dante, is sufficiently intelligible to a certain class of readers without a matter of fact history of the circumstances to which it relate, & to a certain other class, it must & ought ever to remain incomprehensible—It was evidently intended to be prefixed to a longer poem or series of poems—but among his papers there are no traces of such a collection.
PASSAGES OF THE POEM, OR CONNECTED THEREWITH
Here, my dear friend, is a new book for you;I have already dedicated twoTo other friends, one female and one male,—What you are, is a thing that I must veil;What can this be to those who praise or rail? 5I never was attached to that great sectWhose doctrine is that each one should selectOut of the world a mistress or a friend,And all the rest, though fair and wise, commendTo cold oblivion—though 'tis in the code 10Of modern morals, and the beaten road Which those poor slaves with weary footsteps treadWho travel to their home among the deadBy the broad highway of the world—and soWith one sad friend, and many a jealous foe, 15The dreariest and the longest journey go.
Free love has this, different from gold and clay, That to divide is not to take away. Like ocean, which the general north wind breaks Into ten thousand waves, and each one makes 20A mirror of the moon—like some great glass, Which did distort whatever form might pass, Dashed into fragments by a playful child, Which then reflects its eyes and forehead mild; Giving for one, which it could ne'er express, 25A thousand images of loveliness.
If I were one whom the loud world held wise, I should disdain to quote authorities In commendation of this kind of love:—Why there is first the God in heaven above, 30Who wrote a book called Nature, 'tis to be Reviewed, I hear, in the next Quarterly; And Socrates, the Jesus Christ of Greece, And Jesus Christ Himself, did never cease To urge all living things to love each other, 35And to forgive their mutual faults, and smother The Devil of disunion in their souls.•••••••I love you!—Listen, O embodied Ray Of the great Brightness; I must pass away While you remain, and these light words must be 40Tokens by which you may remember me. Start not—the thing you are is unbetrayed, If you are human, and if but the shade Of some sublimer spirit . . . .•••••••And as to friend or mistress, 'tis a form; 45Perhaps I wish you were one. Some declareYou a familiar spirit, as you are;Others with amore inhumanHint that, though not my wife, you are a woman;What is the colour of your eyes and hair? 50Why, if you were a lady, it were fairThe world should know—but, as I am afraid,The[7] Quarterly would bait you if betrayed;And if, as[8] it will be sport to see them stumbleOver all sorts of scandals, hear them mumble 55 Their litany of curses—some guess right,And others swear you're a Hermaphrodite;Like that sweet marble monster of both sexes,Which looks so sweet and gentle that it vexesThe very soul that the soul is gone 60Which lifted from her limbs the veil of stone.[9]•••••••
It is a sweet thing, friendship, a dear balm, A happy and auspicious bird of calm, Which rides o'er life's ever tumultuous Ocean; A God that broods o'er chaos in commotion; 65A flower which fresh as Lapland roses are. Lifts its bold head into the world's frore air, And blooms most radiantly when others die. Health, hope, and youth, and brief prosperity; And with the light and odour of its bloom, 70Shining within the dungeon and the tomb; Whose coming is as light and music are 'Mid dissonance and gloom—a star Which moves not 'mid the moving heavens alone— A smile among dark frowns—a gentle tone 75Among rude voices, a belovèd light, A solitude, a refuge, a delight. If I had but a friend! Why, I have three Even by my own confession; there may be Some more, for what I know, for 'tis my mind 80To call my friends all who are wise and kind,—And these, Heaven knows, at best are very few; But none can ever be more dear than you. Why should they be? My muse has lost her wings, Or like a dying swan who soars and sings, 85I should describe you in heroic style, But as it is, are you not void of guile? A lovely soul, formed to be blessed and bless: A well of sealed and secret happiness; A lute which those whom Love has taught to play 90Make music on to cheer the roughest day, And enchant sadness till it sleeps? . . . .•••••••To the oblivion whither I and thou,All loving and all lovely, hasten nowWith steps, ah, too unequal! may we meet 95In one Elysium or one winding-sheet!
If any should be curious to discover Whether to you I am a friend or lover, Let them read Shakespeare's sonnets, taking thence A whetstone for their dull intelligence 100 That tears and will not cut, or let them guessHow Diotima, the wise prophetess,Instructed the instructor, and why heRebuked the infant spirit of melodyOn Agathon's sweet lips, which as he spoke 105Was as the lovely star when morn has brokeThe roof of darkness, in the golden dawn,Half-hidden, and yet beautiful.I'll pawn My hopes of Heaven—you know what they are worth—That the presumptuous pedagogues of Earth, 110If they could tell the riddle offered here Would scorn to be, or being to appear What now they seem and are—but let them chide, They have few pleasures in the world beside; Perhaps we should be dull were we not chidden, 115Paradise fruits are sweetest when forbidden. Folly can season Wisdom, Hatred Love.•••••••Farewell, if it can be to say farewell To those who•••••••I will not, as most dedicators do, 120Assure myself and all the world and you, That you are faultless—would to God they were Who taunt me with your love! I then should wear These heavy chains of life with a light spirit, And would to God I were, or even as near it 125As you, dear heart. Alas! what are we? Clouds Driven by the wind in warring multitudes, Which rain into the bosom of the earth, And rise again, and in our death and birth, And through our restless life, take as from heaven 130Hues which are not our own, but which are given, And then withdrawn, and with inconstant glance Flash from the spirit to the countenance. There is a Power, a Love, a Joy, a God Which makes in mortal hearts its brief abode, 135A Pythian exhalation, which inspires Love, only love—a wind which o'er the wires Of the soul's giant harpThere is a mood which language faints beneath; You feel it striding, as Almighty Death 140His bloodless steed . . . .•••••••And what is that most brief and bright delight Which rushes through the touch and through the sight, And stands before the spirit's inmost throne, A naked Seraph? None hath ever known. 145 Its birth is darkness, and its growth desire; Untameable and fleet and fierce as fire, Not to be touched but to be felt alone, It fills the world with glory—and is gone. •••••••It floats with rainbow pinions o'er the stream 150Of life, which flows, like adream Into the light of morning, to the grave As to an ocean . . . .•••••••What is that joy which serene infancy Perceives not, as the hours content them[10] by, 155Each in a chain of blossoms, yet enjoys The shapes of this new world, in[11] giant toys Wrought by the busyever new? Remembrance borrows Fancy's glass, to show These forms moresincere 160Than now they are, than then, perhaps, they were. When everything familiar seemed to be Wonderful, and the immortality Of this great world, which all things must inherit, Was felt as one with the awakening spirit, 165Unconscious of itself, and of the strange Distinctions which in its proceeding change It feels and knows, and mourns as if each were A desolation . . . . •••••••Were it not a sweet refuge, Emily. 170For all those exiles from the dull insane Who vex this pleasant world with pride and pain, For all that band of sister-spirits known To one another by a voiceless tone? •••••••If day should part us night will mend division 175And if sleep parts us—we will meet in vision And if life parts us—we will mix in death Yielding our mite [?] of unreluctant breath Death cannot part us—we must meet again In all in nothing in delight in pain: 180How, why or when or where—it matters not So that we share an undivided lot. . . . .•••••••And we will move possessing and possessed Wherever beauty on the earth's bare [?] breast Lies like the shadow of thy soul—till we 185Become one being with the world we see. . . .
- ↑ i.e. the nine lines which follow, beginning, 'My Song, I fear,' etc.— Ed.
- ↑ 100 morning] morn may Rossetti cj.
- ↑ 118 of] on ed. 1839.
- ↑ 405 it] he ed. 1839.
- ↑ 501 many-twining] many twining ed. prin. 1821.
- ↑ 504 winter-woof] inter-woof Rossetti cj.
- ↑ 52-53 afraid The cj. A. C. Bradley.
- ↑ 54 And as cj. Rossetti, A. C. Bradley.
- ↑ 61 stone. . . . cj. A. C. Bradley.
- ↑ 155 them] trip or troop cj. A. C. Bradley.
- ↑ 157 in] as cj. A C. Bradley.